


Do I Look Eighteen To You, Sir?

by the_gaysian_agenda



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, 6th form college, Character Development, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Growing Up, High School, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mrs Hudson has a granddaughter who is there for plot reasons, Pining, Q is a Holmes, Q is still learning how to be a twenty year old, Undercover Q, Younger James Bond, Younger Q, also he's hinted to be a holmes but only if you squint, but wait! theres more!, hes almost making up for missing out on being a teenager, idk i just googled some stuff but I'm trying!!!, q goes on a mission, sorry if all of the "british" stuff is totally wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_gaysian_agenda/pseuds/the_gaysian_agenda
Summary: In which Q starts to wish he could grow and maintain a beard, M is very glad he (Q, not M, mind you) can’t, and 007 is feeling a bit odd about the whole situation.Q gets sent to a high school undercover. MI6 underestimates his ability to, well, make. Friends. Dear god, what is happening.(T for language and some jokes made by characters)





	1. Debriefing (or, the Q Branch is going to burn and it Won't Be Q's Fault)

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any cringe-worthy mistakes in terms of vocabulary usage/dialogue- I’m from California and don’t know much about British accents or slang. Thank you in advance for reading! This is totally self-indulgent and unbeta-ed, so bear with me. 
> 
> Also, I referred to what I believe would be called 6th form college as high school in the summary, but I'll be calling it 6th form college in the story. I honestly have no clue what British schools are like, and I don't know much about American public schools (I've attended private school since 6th grade) either, so if this story seems completely out-of-whack, please let me know what I can improve! I'll just be loosely basing it off of what I know about high schools in general. 
> 
>  
> 
> Honestly, I don't really have a plot in mind (only vaguely), but if anyone has any crossover/other movie suggestions, please let me know! As a side note, the title is/will be subject to change. 
> 
> (note: 007 is 25 and Q is 21)

“Pardon me, but  _what?_ ”

“I’m afraid you heard me perfectly well, Q.” M sighs, looking a good five years older than he already is. “I know that you’re not a field agent, but you look the closest to eighteen out of everyone in the MI6.”

“That’s- that’s _ridiculous_ , how is there nobody-“ Q rushes up to M’s desk from his position at the door, his glasses falling askew. He doesn’t bother to readjust them.

“Nobody who can be out for six months while still maintaining the majority of their work.” M corrects. “All of our field agents are either underqualified, overqualified and needed urgently elsewhere, or too old to look the part.”

 _How can you be underqualified for a tiny intel mission?_  Q wonders semi-hysterically.  _An eighteen-year-old. In 6th form college._

_You’ve got to be shitting me._

“Sir, what about running the double-O missions? Or new equipment?”  _There has to be a way out of this_. Q distantly wonders if finding a way out counts as treason. He can’t seem to care.

“We’ve considered your current responsibilities and come to the conclusion that your current intellect will more than suffice to enable you to pass easily through school. Therefore, school will only be used to scout your target. On your time off, you will continue with your more important duties, as well as reserve full permission to take days off of school if extra time is needed. As for homework, if you do not have time to complete it you may either dismiss it to reaffirm your cover as a normal burnt-out student or have one of the unoccupied Q branch members complete it in your stead.” M flips the file he’d been leafing through closed and slides it across the desk to Q. “Enclosed is your cover and target’s information- please report to Q- er, the Q branch for mission supplies and wardrobe.” M finishes, leaving no room for argument. “Dismissed.”

Q nods and leaves the room, lips pressed thinly together. At least he is in total control of his equipment, if nothing else.

_Dear god, this is going to be painful._

 

* * *

 

“Andrew Hamish Walt was born in 1999, on November 2nd. His father is John Walt and his late mother was Jenny Watson, who died in 2003. Andrew’s family is a normal, functioning one, despite lacking a mother. He is allergic to pollen and grass but enjoys football and computers. His favorite movie is the first Star Wars. He loves coffee and detests all tea-“

“He  _what?!_ ”

“-especially Earl Grey. Honestly, you’re okay with his favorite movie being the first Star Wars but him not liking tea does it? Anyways. Andrew is-“ Moneypenny chokes, but quickly recovers. “-gay, fancies men in suits who can shoot Walther PPKs and has a preference for blue eyes- I didn’t write that but whichever minion did, praise to them- and his favorite position is-“ Moneypenny doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence.

“Please don’t finish that sentence. Who wrote that?!” Q thinks his face is going to burn off. “I am going to find whoever wrote that and they are going to burn _so help me_ -“

Moneypenny interrupts. “It was handwritten.”

“Then I will compile a database of every single MI6 employee’s handwriting and analyze it-“ He rants, already opening up his computer.

“Do you- do you want me to print you a new copy? And trash the old one?” Moneypenny smiles slyly.

Q can’t help but flush. “Please do. And before 007 sees it.”

“You never know, he might find some of the information useful.” She calls out, even as she strides away.

“Don’t blame me when all you have on your next mission is a Nokia!” Q yells at her retreating back.

 _God help me,_  he prays, even though he isn't religious,  _or hit me with a stray strike of lighting. Even just a little toaster malfunction. A tiny accident with a sink. A screwdriver. Anything._

“Hey Overlord, you’re a bottom?” A minion chooses that moment to share that _very relevant information_ ,  _very unnecessarily_  loudly.

The entire Q branch swivels to stare at him, then the traitorous minion, then back at him.

“Fucking  _shit!_ ” Someone calls out, while another hollers about George owing them 80 pounds. The Q branch falls into chaos.

Q wants to dissolve into the floor, which he can do with at least thirty-three different solutions, all of them in cupboard number fifteen, marked ‘hazardous’, but he settles for slumping down in his desk chair. Whoever wrote and circulated that is going to have problems with popup ads for a mixture of kinky porn, vacuum cleaners, and Tropicana orange juice for the next two years.

Just as Q thinks it can’t get any worse,  _James Bloody Bond_  strolls through the doors.

Make it four years, and he’s definitely adding dating websites and maybe Grindr ads to the list.

007 looks mildly disgruntled, which is a feat in itself.

“What was that?” He asks over the chaos and strides directly over to Q’s desk.

If he heard, the perpetrator will have a lifetime of constant popups, along with an endless stream of telemarketers.

“Nothing,” mumbles Q from behind his laptop screen, “only my hourly mental breakdown.” He doesn’t say the last part out loud.

“Q, are you alright?” Bond sounds vaguely concerned but also mostly amused by the normally-orderly Q branch’s sudden explosion (of non-firearms, bombs, or other materials, for once).

No, he is not fucking alright, but Q will be even less alright if  _Bond_  were to find out. He doesn’t even think that 007 know’s he’s gay.

So instead of screaming as loudly as he can into all of MI6 like he’d like to, he tells Bond about the mission.

“Who’s going to be my backup then?” He sounds faintly amused by the whole ordeal. “If you’re on part-time now.”

Q sighs. “I think I can still coordinate mission details, design equipment, and hack anything that the rest of Q branch can’t, but I can’t actively monitor you or the rest of the double-Os anymore or test physical prototypes. If something particularly urgent comes up, M says that I can take time off from- from _school_.” He says the word disgustedly, as if it leaves a bitter taste on his lips.

Bond smirks. “Good luck on your first day, Andrew.” He throws his jacket over his (distractingly broad) shoulder as he leaves.

“I still hate you!” Q calls out, even as the doors close.

The rest of Q branch had quieted without Q noticing, but he suddenly is hyper-aware of everyone’s eyes burning into him. He pointedly reopens his laptop and starts working, a clear hint to the rest of the branch. The branch, full of highly intelligent, well-trained, and jaded individuals, dissolves into giggles.

-

Twenty minutes later, he chokes on his tea as something occurs to him.

He never told Bond what his alias’ name was.


	2. (feel free to skip) ah yes, the awful wattpad author's note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys? 
> 
> Not deleting, just confusing myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (note: 007 is 25 and Q is 21)
> 
> surprise guys I bet you didn't think I could get even MORE inconsistent well guess what!!!

I really hate to do this and by doing this I am slowly torturing the art nerd within me, but here is the dreaded Author's Note.

I never thought this day would come.

That I'd do this to my own story.

Butchering the layout, the carefully (un)planned formatting.

  
Okay, all jokes aside, I just thought it might be important to clarify some stuff.

 

Starting simply,  **age.**

Q is now 21, and 007 is 25. Just to make it a little less weird. 

 

Now,  **fandoms.**

I did mention that this may turn into a slight crossover, and well. that took a nosedive away from me off of a cliff into the waiting beak of a squid. I have yet to post it like the awful person I am, but chapter two will turn into a much larger crossover than I thought it would be. Specifically, with Sherlock. 

I won't spoil much here, but just know this: to read and enjoy this you don't need really any background information on Sherlock, but you'll catch more of my little references. Not knowing anything about Sherlock probably won't ruin the story for you (beyond my awful grammar and inability to edit or proofread), but it may be a deterrent. And that's okay; if you hate it but want to continue reading, send me a comment ASAP and I'll tone it down a bit. 

If you have character (regardless of fandom) suggestions, they might make cameos in school! Just for kicks. And only if I can fit them in. Which is more likely than not. 

 

Okay, let's get  _more_ inconsistent. I did a bit of editing on chapter 1 and some of you might've picked up on where I accidentally call 6th form high school.

But anyways,  **school systems.**

I had people who helped me out (mainly [Iamala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iamala/pseuds/Iamala), thank you so much!! also shoutout to [lapsang_and_earlgrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsang_and_earlgrey/pseuds/lapsang_and_earlgrey) for helping me with British brands!) with the British school system, and I've come to the conclusion that I did not do enough research and instead plunged into this like an idiot. So, I'm making a few compromises because I don't quite want to shift everything over to the US all of the sudden (despite chapter 1 being around 3 words long).

Essentially, in Fiction Land, there is suddenly a convenient American 6th form/high school hybrid that just _happens_ to be in London (roast me in the comments yall). 

I do have a couple reasons for this, mostly the sheer irrelevance of content and pressure that the American school system places on students (there's a lot of room for character development that I want to play with). Mostly I want to put Q through all of the standard required classes (P.E., maybe throw him into a music elective, history, writing, science, math, etc), give him APs for extra pressure, and make him experience burnt-out peers, classmates that don't give a flying fuck about their academics, and lazy teachers. 

Honestly, if it gets too weird with the whole juggling-school-systems, just send me a comment and I'll just move them over to the US. 

 

Thanks for bearing with me through this painful process (am I talking about the author's note? the inconsistencies? the lack of planning? all of chapter 1? we will never know)! 

Chapter 2 is currently being edited, expect that to be up soon! 

 

Many thanks to everyone who has commented, left kudos, bookmarked, or even viewed this! I hardly ever write (and it shows), so it means a lot! 


	3. Q vs Math Class (or, Mean Girls: the Sequel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q battles math class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you come here for Mean Girls? because you got mean girls 
> 
> donut worry it'll get a bit less cliche from here 
> 
>  
> 
> (i'm lying. this is a cliche cringefest. beware)

Q drums at his desk, unusually unfocused.

He’d finished helping 003 through his mission and had seated him on a plane to Los Angeles for a meeting (an actual official one that 003 had been invited to for his research and writing in agricultural-global hierarchies, specifically focusing on geography, a few years back). Q had read most of his papers. They were intriguing.

005’s mission had required very little guidance on his part. The most challenging part was navigating 005’s jeep through a particularly dense forest that just _happened_ to house at least thirty-three endangered species, or thirty-three animals whose habitats needed to be preserved to MI6’s best ability. And double-O agents aren’t generally known for preservation of their surroundings, much less themselves. Still, Q managed to get 005 out with almost everything intact- the car, the forest, and 005 and run tests on eight different acids Q had been experimenting with at the same time.

007 usually was the most troublesome agent, even more so than 004 who would not stop flirting with him over the comms, then proceed to flirt with 004’s target, Moneypenny, 007, and just about everything that had a pulse. But at least 004 could hold onto his earpiece, unlike _someone_. But 007 didn’t have any missions that Q was informed of (and uninformed of).

After directing both missions, he’d double-checked and rewrote most of MI6’s security protocols.

He’d gotten bored around twenty minutes after and redid MI5’s.

He stalked some doctor’s blog, which was about solving small but puzzling crimes with his partner, a detective. At the same time, he accessed his personal cameras inside his apartment and watched his cats.

He’d consumed at least eight cups of Earl Grey by now. He was halfway through his ninth by the time it was 2 in the afternoon.

In short, Q is bored. Unbearably so. To the point where he is almost looking forward to his upcoming mission.

But even Q has not sunk quite that low yet.

He knows what M is doing. He’s trying to lower Q’s workload, so that he can “adjust to school life”. Q doesn’t think he’s particularly vain or narcissistic (although it does run in the family), but he knows that he is certainly smart, and undoubtedly as capable as anyone in the Q branch. He may be young but he is not Quartermaster for no reason.

 _The mission is the most important thing. M knows what you can do, this is just more important,_ he tells himself.

 _God, this is going to be absolutely awful,_ he thinks at the same time.

-

 _“Margaret “Peggy” Marie Hudson is nineteen years old. She was born in 1999, on August 9_ _th_ _. Her parents were Gerald McGregor and Jenny Hudson, but after a tragic incident with an airplane crash, suspected to be caused by a drug cartel in Florida, she began living with her grandmother. Her grandmother is suspected to be involved with the drug cartel, but the specifics are unknown, given the suspiciously high levels of security surrounding MARTHA LOUISE HUDSON and her utilization of non-digital methods to preserve her information and records, most likely due to her age. Whether she is actively involved in said ring is unknown. Further investigation needed.” –M’s computer, file marked “ROUGH_DRAFT_PEGGY_MARIE_HUDSON_FILE”, tagged with ”MARTHA_LOUISE_HUDSON” and “FLORIDA_DRUG_CARTEL”._

Interesting.

(The issued file was overly-censored- the position of Quartermaster had high enough clearance to view most of it, but Q had only been working for the MI6 for a bit over a year now and had yet to “prove his loyalty through time”, as C put it.)

(It also probably didn’t help that his introduction to MI6, or rather MI6’s introduction to _him_ had been after he hacked MI6, gotten bored, and started leaving edits on their speeches. Next to his constant covering up for Bond, it didn't look exactly pristine.)

Both files are pretty vague, but Q has months on the mission to spend twiddling his thumbs.

His taxi to the school is scheduled for two hours from now and he wants to say goodbye to his cats, along with implement a tiny little system to keep them fed and ensure that he can remotely monitor them. The school is only a bit over an hour by bus and only half of one by car, so he should be clear to check on his cats during the weekends.

 _Or you could ask Bond to do it for you,_ his awful brain whispers, _he drops by enough as is._

 _That’s always for medical scrapes or quick fixes for broken gear that he doesn’t need to go all the way to MI6 for. Not “Hey Q, how’re you doing today?” visits,_ he argues back.

 _But he_ does _feed your cats._

It’s like fighting a swarm of bees. Q gives up. Maybe he’ll ask Bond to drop by and feed them once or twice.

-

That’s it. He is going crazy from boredom.

 _What will the first day be like?_ He wonders.

He’s memorized the blueprints, but if he cross-references all of the student schedules they make virtually no sense. It’s as if the architects and designers had the foresight of an infant, just throwing down classrooms left and right regardless of logic.

Even the simplest things are overlooked- the students are split into six groups, and each of the groups have opposite “pairs”- that is, they switch classes with one other group for required subjects like History, English, Science, Writing, and Physical Education.

Despite this, when one group is in History and has to switch classes with the group in Writing three days a week, they still didn’t place the classrooms adjacent to each other, or even in the vicinity of each other.

Instead, Writing and History are about as far apart as possible.

And if this were merely a design oversight, the schedulers have the capability to switch the schedules so that the students’ classes are close to each other as they progress through their day. Combining this with the subject matter and mental energy needed to transition from subject to subject, Q can come up with the optimal schedule.

He looks at his ideal schedule. Then at the current students’. Then back at his.

There are so many differences.

 _Does it matter that the student schedules aren’t released to the public? Is that a violation of the students’ privacy?_ He suddenly wonders, and is struck by the sheer absurdity of the thought.

He’s killed, he’s been in jail, he’s been tortured, he’s shot others, he’s been shot, he’s hacked countless governments, ruined economies, toyed with world leaders and he’s debating the _morals of extracting a single webpage from a single school that will ultimately not affect anyone but him?_

Dear god, he _is_ insane.

But for all of his puzzling and semi-psychotic inner ranting, Q realizes that he has no clue how he is supposed to act at a school. He was homeschooled and then jailed for a few years before joining MI6- how is he supposed to fit in? All he _really_ needs to do is get close to Margaret, but to do that without looking like a delinquent who’s been held back a few years too many, he’ll need to blend into the general student body.

He is brilliant, sure, but he is no field agent. He is no Bond.

He’s just another “brilliant” mind- brilliant until the next one waltzes along to take his place.

-

“Andrew Walt? Andrew Walt, are you here?” A woman in sturdy heels, red lipstick, a tight bun, and a frazzled-looking expression clicks into the cramped waiting room where Q is awkwardly perched on a cracked green sofa. The door that she peers in through is marked “MAIN OFFICE” in peeling black letters.

“Yes, I’m Andrew.” Q stands to shake her hand, noticing that he is not much taller than her.

“I am Professor Jameson, the head of academics here. Please, come in and we can discuss your situation.” She opens the door for him, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. “Thank you for arriving early- we appreciate your punctuality.” She adds.

There’s a heavy-looking wooden desk, a chair on either side, a few bookcases (with titles in in French, German, Latin, and Q thinks he can make out one in Korean at the top), and a trophy case. The glare from the window prevents him from reading any of the engravings inside the case, but he can see four trophies, all identically shaped like gold chessboards.

Q didn’t know what to expect, so he hacked into the school’s security system on the drive over. It looks more intimidating in real life, though.

Again, _pathetic_.

“Please, take a seat.” Professor Jameson sits down tiredly at the chair across from him, and he quickly realizes that he’s gawking. Q quickly sits down in his chair, but regrets it immediately as the legs grate across the floor with an incriminating screech.

They stare at each other for a second.

“As I’m sure you know, it’s not usually our policy to accept students a semester into our 6th form program. But we’ve made an exception for you, Mr. Walt, and we expect you to live up to the standards we’ve set for you.” She breaches the tension with a razor-sharp knife- not even a knife, more of a chainsaw-flamethrower hybrid.

Has he already botched the operation, before it could even start?

“That being said, we were stunned by your exceptional scores. We are very glad that you have chosen our school before you travel abroad to study.”

Travel abroad? One of the Q branch minions must’ve thrown that in. He’ll have to give them a raise- making it look like he has international ambitions (sure, he already practically monitors the globe but Professor Jameson doesn’t need to know that).

“We’ve done our best to integrate you into your classes as naturally as possible- your teachers have all been informed about your situation and seen your tests and previous teachers’ evaluations. You will be sent work or reading to make up for missed information that your teachers deem necessary for your success in the coming year.”

She smiles at Q, her thin lips pressing together rather forcedly.

“On behalf of everyone here, I welcome you and wish you luck in the rest of your academic career!” Her smile looks a bit more genuine as she ushers him out the door, shoving a bent manila folder at him. “Have a lovely first day.” The door slams, and Q is suddenly surrounded by green couches again.

Wonderful.

-

Q has ten minutes until his first class officially starts- from what he learned from 004 (they talked a bit while Q was touching up his gear), no one gets to class early. He quickly commits his locker code and schedule to memory (the only items in the folder)- where can he burn them?

 _That’s arson, and you’re not in MI6 right now,_ he reminds himself. Plus, he doesn’t plan on stowing anything compromising in his locker and his schedule is easily accessible with just a little bit of hacking.

There are a lot of other rules that 004 told him about. Try not to show off, unless you’re particularly good at football or rugby (Q is absolute _pants_ at rugby). No one really cares if you’re smart, unless you’re hot. The teachers are the ultimate authority, but at the same time they hold none at all. Exams are life. Don’t fail your exams, but you can fail everything else. It looks like you don’t care, which is “cool”.

Everything is so contradictory. It makes his head spin.

He sighs, and resigns himself to his first day of school. His brothers would laugh uncontrollably if they found out- no, _when_ they find out.

-

The hallway is crowded and reminds him of why he avoids the Tube at rush hour. Most of the male students are taller than him and twice his weight (mind you, he’s 5’9”- he’s not entirely short) and he gets jostled around easily.

It’s only thanks to years of rushing through crowds (although, he admits, having various people out to kill him as their goons bulldoze through the rush after him is a bit different) that he makes it to his class without being completely swept away by the constant flow of teenagers.

(So what if he’s only twenty-one, he’s still not a teenager. Technically.)

Inside, Q finds an assortment of students- a quick sweep of the room tells him that there are twenty-two students, excluding himself.

They’ve grouped into cliques- in the back is a group of mostly tall, bulky, linebacker-looking boys. They’re alternating between yelling at each other about sports statistics, all laughing around eight octaves deeper than Q’s voice can go, and oddly enough, arguing about the sugar-to-electrolyte ratio of different sports drinks. A lot of them have buzz cuts, Q notes. How odd.

Next to them are a mix of genders (some unidentifiable at first sight, and Q doesn’t want to assume anything), all with brightly dyed hair, several piercings, and clothing that looks like abstract art, a mix of denim, high-waisted and/or torn everything, and fishnets. They each have carefully applied eyeliner wings or other makeup- Q can’t help but admire them a little bit. All he ever wears himself is a bit of hair product and the same few sweater-slacks combinations or the obligatory MI6 suit. And MI6 usually advises discretion, usually in the form of office-employee wear.

Near the window on the west side of the classroom is a cluster of girls. Like the second group, all of them have carefully styled hair, but theirs looks mostly natural. Curiously, they’re all dressed in pale blue skinny jeans with either a knit cardigan or sweater, and all seem to be wearing the same shoes. They’re mostly on their phones, taking photos and giggling to each other. Occasionally one will shriek.

Directly opposite them is a group that seems the opposite- they have messy hair (but Q spots a couple drugstore-dyed highlights) and are all carrying some form of caffeine, whether it’s coffee, Redbull, tea, or a mixture of all three (Q is reminded bitterly of Andrew Walt’s supposed hatred of tea). They’re alternating between screaming about different celebrities -Q catches the word _Lucifer_ and _Mark Pelle-_ something and decides that he was only assigned one mission here and will only be performing one mission- and whispering excitedly to each other.

In the middle are a few teenagers who look pretty average- plain haircuts, t-shirts and jeans or running shorts and are keeping to themselves, tapping away at their phones.

Finally, at the front of the room, can only be what Q’s been called but never really known the nuances of- the “nerds”. They’re one of the smaller groups, second only to what Q has categorized as the “average” kids in the middle. All but three of them are wearing glasses and he recognizes his frame among them- mostly thin kids, a bit on the scrawny side. Their clothes range from mostly unremarkable to a jarring combination of green sweatpants and an orange hoodie.

Categorizing everything -or rather, everyone- makes him feel a little better, a little more at ease in this unfamiliar environment.

Q doesn’t realize that he’s been hovering awkwardly in the doorway until the teacher pushes through.

 _In the field, you’d be dead, Quartermaster,_ a voice taunts him. He doesn’t try to argue with himself this time. It’s true.

 

The teacher maneuvers around Q and the combination of feet and backpacks scattered in front of the front row. The groups start to disperse into the individual desks- Q could spend days analyzing the desks’ design and never come up with an answer as to _what in the ever-loving fuck was the designer thinking_ when he built them. They’re awkwardly shaped, difficult to sit in, easy to hide a device or distraction under, and are short. He can see the taller students’ feet sticking out from under their desks in an attempt to fit their knees under it.

He keeps getting distracted. This isn’t a good start to any mission.

He wishes for a fleeting second that he could have his own quartermaster- he consulted the Double-Os that were in the building the week before he left as to attire (not behavior; they’re all absolute psychos and/or attractive enough to do a chicken dance in the middle of the hallway and still be admired), but he has no one to walk him through this mission.

The thought sends a flush to his face. He’s pretending to be an adolescent and apparently, he’s reverted to one, too.

He is the damn _Quartermaster of MI6_ , he doesn’t need a walkthrough for a tiny intel mission.

The teacher sits down at his desk, producing a computer from his briefcase, and begins to call out names. Q is still hovering at the door. The teacher looks a bit dead.

Awkwardly standing in a doorway and feeling about as out of place as a fish that has fallen out of the water and managed to board an airplane doesn’t stop him from committing every name and face to memory. Nerves or no, he is Quartermaster and on a mission.

Margaret “Peggy” Hudson does not get called out in this class, and he doesn’t see anyone who looks like the few selfies she posted that MI6 sourced for his reference (Read: since Q _is_ the Quartermaster, he found them himself, no thanks to MI6. Sure, he’s hacked into North Korean “secure” servers, but he’s still resentful of needing to google-search an image. It’s as if MI6 is just sending him off to boarding school without a second though.).

No matter. He’ll just try to catch onto the dynamic of this school.

It was easy enough when he was in prison.

 

The teacher finishes with “Yellend, Sara”, who turns out to be a tall brunette girl, dressed in a large sweater and neon pink beanie hat.

Q wonders if he’ll be told to do something, or if he should’ve taken one of the empty seats in the middle.

“A few announcements- class is not a snack zone. After last semester’s issues with sprinkles, we will no longer be permitting snacks in carpeted rooms.”

The carpet is a garish green, but it’s thankfully less neon than the couches from the waiting room. Q doesn’t think that the carpet can get any worse, sprinkles or not.

“Also, we have a new student. Andrew, if you’d like to introduce yourself?” The teacher smiles affably, sealing Q’s doom. He suddenly envisions reciting the file, word-for-word, then sinking to the floor out of embarrassment.

Honestly. This is ridiculous. How is it that Q can banter easily with James Bond, a _literally_ certified killing machine, dismantle bombs, slip through foreign security systems and bypass other walls, but he can’t introduce himself to twenty-two pimpled teenagers?

_Pathetic._

“Hello, I’m Andrew Walt.” Q glances at the professor, and suddenly remembers him from when he was studying the profiles and digging up extensive information on each staff member at the school at four in the morning last night. His full name is Thomas Powelson, of primarily Irish descent, but with bits of English and Gaelic (from his mother’s side). He has two children, Nanny and Suzie Powelson, aged nine and fourteen. He- _this is completely irrelevant,_ Q realizes, and stops.

“I’m nineteen, I like football and computers.” He pauses. “Uh, I was homeschooled before this, but attended a public primary school for three years.” What else was there to say?

He was silent for a few seconds, in which Powelson seemed to catch on.

“Alright, thank you Mr. Walt! I am confident that you can catch up quickly, but just in case, I have a few trinkets to get you up to speed with the rest. We’ll be going over class curriculum and reviewing last year, so go on ahead and take a peek through these. If you need a tutor, email me and I can certainly connect you.” Powelson opens up one of the drawers in his desk, heaving two textbooks and dumping them into Q’s arms. Despite being around three inches thick each, they are surprisingly light.

One thing strikes him a second after. Q certainly does _not_ need a tutor, thank you.

“Ah- sir- um, excuse me, what seat should I take?” Q fumbles over his words. What is he supposed to address Powelson as? Sir? Professor? Professor Powelson?

“Anything that’s open.” Powelson waves his hand dismissively, gesturing vaguely to the middle of the class and opens up his computer. In the reflection of the whiteboard behind him, Q can make out the Netflix logo on his computer. In his recent watch section, Q can make out a title called _Fifty Shades of Gray._ He thinks he’s heard about it, he can vaguely recall 004 mentioning it, but it doesn’t sound educational or relevant to the class. Netflix doesn’t have very much educational content, does it? Q should know- Netflix at home with his cats, takeout, Earl Grey, and an economy falling to shreds under his fingertips is a perfect night in his book.

He balances the textbooks on the fingertips of his left hand and holds his backpack with the other, navigating carefully around slung out feet and arms until he is seated in the middle with the few other stragglers.

“Alright. Welcome to Math Two. Today we will-“

Q doesn’t bother to listen, instead deciding to “take a peek through” his new textbooks, as Powelson so eloquently put it.

The introduction is dull, but introductions are supposed to be dull, aren’t they? Perhaps the actual content of the book will be more interesting.

Five minutes and two-hundred-forty-six pages later, it is decidedly not more interesting. The author hardly mentions concepts or other applicable uses, or even the significance of the equations it attempts to teach.

Maybe the conclusion will end with more conceptual work and ideas, leading into an intriguing sequel that’s main focus is comprehension.

It does not.

How disappointing.

Q is a tad worried for his classmates, but he comforts himself in knowing that they most likely were not completely reliant on the textbook material and thus had covered much more. And perhaps this year would contain redeeming curriculum.  

Q flips the (disappointing, waste-of-paper-and-space) books closed before listening to Powelson’s lecture for an impressive eight minutes.

It’s exactly what Powelson said it would be- review.

Q pulls out a notebook and pretends to take notes for the rest of the period, instead writing lines of code by hand, then revising them over and over until he’s confident that he’s written a decent digital lock for his locker- not like he has the materials to implement it. Ideally it would continuously require hacking from an outside source to open, but be continuously changing- a simplified version of Silvia’s “live Rubik’s cube”. Just as a little challenge for himself.

Silvia might’ve been despicable, but Q would be dammed to deny his intelligence.

 

Q is thrown out of his musings by Powelson.

“Andrew? I hope you have a good excuse as to _why_ you are not paying attention to the lesson or your textbooks- as a new student here, I should think that you’d try to make a good impression.” The teacher snaps at him.

Q can feel the burning gazes of his classmates. Normally most of them wouldn’t have given a single shit about whether another student got in trouble with Powelson, but he’s the “new kid”.

“Sir, I believe that my comprehension is already sufficient for this level of teaching, given that this is entirely review.” Q keeps his response short, doing his best not to squirm in his seat. This is completely patronizing, he has a job, a salary, he’s of legal age- _he has a mission_. The thought comes to the forefront of his mind.

He can’t mess this up, he can’t give them another thing to hold against him, not when they already laugh at his age.

“Is that so? I don’t know what your mummy and daddy told you in homeschool, but here we expect a certain _standard_. We are letting you remain here even though we don’t usually _accommodate_ for merely average students. Come up here.” Powelson looks smug and if Q were Bond, he’d slug the smirk off of his face.

But he is not Bond. He is just Q.

So Q walks to the front with as much dignity as he can manage (and without telling Powelson that he is very certain that Q’s salary is significantly larger than Powelsons’).

“Solve this.” Powelson turns and begins writing out an equation on the board, the marker squeaking across the board. Q winces at the sound and immediately regrets it. It must look like he’s dreading solving the problem.

Which he can do, of course. You don’t get Quartermaster of the MI6 without knowing basic math. Honestly. But he can’t get it too quickly, either, otherwise it’ll look suspicious.

Well, maybe just this once…

Q grabs a marker off of Powelson’s desk, the weight confirming that it is in no shortage of ink and thus, will not squeak. Perfect. He steps back, then forwards, then glances to the left, at the class, and finally at Powelson. Powelson, who is most decidedly not MI6 field agent material, misinterprets this as nervousness.

“Don’t stall, we don’t have all day. If you can’t solve it-“

Q just levels Powelson with a stare. It’s not intimidating, it’s not a scowl, it’s not disgusted. It’s just indifference.

_Don’t you see? I want you to watch this._

Q quietly writes out the answer in the format that the textbooks had wanted, then simplifies it. Then writes out answers to accommodate for a few different scenarios. Normally when he calculates things involving travel (as this word problem does) for the agents he accounts for losing the car, car chases, and blowing up the car, but he thinks it’s safe to stick to the simplest, most mundane issues.

“When asked in a purely theoretical sense, this question can be answered using this-“ Q points to his first answer. “-but, since you gave it to me in a predetermined setting, we now need to account for a few factors, such as but not limited to as I have only calculated a few examples and the simplest ones of those, but they may include weather, gas prices, traffic, and the like.” Q recaps his marker and sets it back on the desk before awkwardly heading back to his seat.

The classroom is silent. He can hear the squeak of his shoes against the plastic-y floor.

Powelson examines his handiwork.

“Mr. Walt, have you read our student policy manuals?” Powelson paces from his desk, slowly slinking forward until he is directly in front of the frontmost row. Q is in the third row.

“Yes, I have. I can assure you that in no way did I cheat or otherwise outsource any of my answers.” Q’s answer is clipped. Powelson does not break eye contact.

“Fine. Stand.”

Q stands.

“Mr. Walt. You may use the whiteboard, although with your… prowess… I hope that you will not need it.” Both sets of eyes narrow. “Using the American SAT format-”

_American SATs? What is he doing?_

“-solve for the value of _a_ . The equation (24 _x_ ^2 + 25 _x_ \- 47)/( _ax_ \- 2) = -8 _x_ \- 3 - (53)/( _ax_ – 2) is true for all values of _x_ (2/ _a_ ), where _a_ is a constant.” Powelson is trying to set him up. There’s no way that an average nineteen-year-old can solve that in his head in a minute. The class around him rustles with whispers and questions. He can hear a few muttered _fucks_ and _bollocks, he’s got him_.

Luckily, Q is not average nor nineteen.

He pauses for a few seconds to check his work- it’d be embarrassing for him to get the solution wrong because of a mere calculation error.

“The answer, sir, is -3.”

Q doesn’t often gloat (it’s only for 007, who needs to be knocked down a peg anyways), but he would be lying if the sight of Powelson’s face didn’t bring him immense satisfaction.

“I- I’d like to speak to you up here.” Powelson looks a bit faint. “The rest of you, con-continue onto page thirteen in your textbooks.” The class shrugs and gets to work. They don’t care too much about another “nerd” joining their class in his glasses and unkempt hair.

“Sir.”

“Mr. Walt. If you wouldn’t mind, please detail your process to me. I find it highly unlikely that you are able to complete algebra of that caliber completely mentally.” Powelson stares down his rounded at Q, who suddenly feels a bit shorter.

“I- well, it’s rather simple, actually. I just multiplied by _ax-2_ to get rid of that, then multiplied (-8x - 3) and (ax - 2), reduced on the right side of the equation, then knowing that the coefficients of the x 2 term had to be equal on each side, I was able to simplify it to _-8a = 24,_ or _a = -3_.” Q fidgets in place. He’s usually perfectly articulate when it comes to explaining equations and the like, but just being here makes him nervous.

Powelson, who’d been leaning closer to hear his answer, drew back as if stung.

“And you managed all of that, in your head, in less than thirty seconds?” Oh no. He’d gone too far, hadn’t he? He should’ve taken a few more minutes or used the whiteboard. Or gotten the problem wrong- just a tiny mistake in the process would’ve been much more convincing.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like to give you a slightly more advanced curriculum in Maths. Nothing too hefty,” he said, mistaking Q’s alarmed stare. “Just a little more accelerated. I haven’t seen a student like you in decades!” Powelson seems suddenly forgiving, almost like he’s excited. Instead of comforting Q, it just makes him more nervous.

“Al- alright, um, thank you.” Q accepts the textbook, feeling a bit of deja vu as he does, and sits back down at his desk. He can feel a couple stares burning through his anorak jacket.

This is already awful.

Well, at least the more advanced textbook- labeled _Honors: Real and Complex Analysis_ \- is much more interesting than its disappointing predecessors. Q settles down for the rest of the period, tuning out Powelson’s monotonous (and quite frankly, dangerously sleep-inducing) drone.

Still, he can’t pretend that he’d rather be back at MI6, minions and machines at his side, directing the agents through faraway car chases.

 

One mathematics class, done. Only one-hundred and fifty-five more to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!
> 
> edit: i went back and fixed some mistakes but if you see anything, feel free to call it out. chapter 3 is in the works!


	4. P.E. (get rekt, techurs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q CAN RUN YALL DAT BOI CAN RUN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhh I've had this sitting around for a few weeks now but in my defense I was in Korea for the past few weeks and had no computer access? lmao sorry enjoy the cringefest ahead

“So, what’s with _you_ _?_ ” A girl (Stephanie Parker, he recalls) with bleach-white hair, cut in an asymmetrical bob speaks up as they begin the illogical trek across the campus to their next class- science. More specifically, biology.

“What do you mean?” He’s a bit preoccupied with figuring out the best conduct for his next class- his encounter with Powelson had gone strikingly horrifically.

“Pissing off the prof, joining in the second semester, the like.” A tall boy walking the opposite direction slams into Q’s shoulder without stopping, rushing to his next class. Q stumbles but manages to avoid falling, skipping back a few steps. He almost bumps into Maggie Baker from his last class.

“I really didn’t mean to aggravate him, it just- it just happened.” Q seems to have a recurring habit of passive-aggressively pissing off everyone- M (which was probably how he got this mission), 007 (it was entirely Bond’s fault for losing _every single piece of gear_ that Q gave to him, though), and now Powelson.

“ _It just happened,_ huh? Mate, that was the most entertaining thing I’ve seen with Powelson-“

A boy cuts in. Q remembers his name from roll call- Nathan Cartwright.

“-or the most emotional, at least.” He snorts. “Andrew, yeah?”

It takes Q a second to realize that he’s asking for confirmation of his name. Most of the MI6 personnel have the terribly annoying habit of being dramatically vague, but they aren’t usually very colloquial with him.

“Ye- yeah. I’m Andrew. And you are?” Generally, people don’t memorize people’s names and faces according to a five-minute roll call.

“Nate. This is Stephanie.” Nate is a bit taller than Q and much more built. He looks like a- a swimmer, perhaps? “So, you got some smarts, man, but I can’t say you totally look like someone who spends his summers in a darkened room with a calculator.” He laughs, lightly.

It takes Q another moment to realize that he’s asking about what Q usually does. But Nate’s not entirely wrong- he spends most of his time underground and in front of a monitor.

“I wouldn’t say that, but I do like-“ - _quick, he needs a sport that he has the skill set to be good at, what games involve good aim, sprinting, gunfights and exploding cars-_ “-paintball. I- I used to play a lot.” What is he _saying_?

Nate and Stephanie blink in unison, surprised.

“That’s cool mate, some of the guys and I play on the weekend sometimes. You should join.” Nate shrugs, ducking through a doorway. Stephanie follows with Q quickly behind. “What’s your number? I’ll text you.”

* * *

 

And so the day proceeds, each class sapping Q’s will to move or think.

This is worse than filling out paperwork.

He doesn’t see the target at all by lunchtime, and resigns himself to awkwardly eating alone in some vague corner of the campus. At least the food is decent (even though it doesn’t have nothing on MI6’s cafeteria).

Exactly six minutes and forty-three seconds into his lunch period, his mobile buzzes. It’s probably Nate.

He pulls out his phone and his stomach clenches. _It’s Moneypenny._

“Hello?” He packs up his things and heads to the nearest bathroom- more private. As he walks, he loops the feed of the CCTV cameras and blocks the audio in his chosen bathroom. Not exactly ideal for what’s bound to be a top-secret communication, but it’ll do.

“ _Q. Sorry, I know it’s your first day, but Q branch has a slight problem.”_ She sounds breathless. Q branch probably persuaded her (or chased her around the building in a giant swarm) until she called him for them.

“What’s wrong?”

 _“It’s Bond.”_ She rushes to correct herself after hearing his sharp breath. “ _We lost his signal in the Korean border.”_

 _Why_. Why does this always happen. Q hasn’t even been gone more than forty-eight hours.

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do. Get someone who has the time to stay on the line- I might need to contact Q-Branch after establishing contact.” Q hauls one of his tablets out of his bag, already connecting to MI6’s servers.

“Wait, Q- aren’t those- aren’t those supposed to be inaccessible outside of MI6?” Moneypenny’s face peers out from his mobile’s tiny screen.

“That would be inconvenient,” Q muses, already streaming live feed of satellite cameras above the DPRK. “If I hadn’t left myself a back door.”

Q clears his throat. “I have a general location- looks like 007’s doing alright.” Q quickly renders a map and cross-references all the available cameras he can find to pinpoint a general location. “Facial recognition software is brilliant these days.” He can faintly remember being very young and very frustrated with the manual labor required to track specific faces.

Honestly, he can’t quite believe that MI6 was authorized to spy on North Korea— if word got out, those missile tests might become a little more than just tests. The stakes here were uncomfortably high.

Q glances back at the mobile. Moneypenny left and now it looks like Travis got “listen to Q’s rambling” duty instead.

“I’m sending you the map, but it looks like he’ll be extracted pretty cleanly. We need to get him to the checkpoint anonymously, so I’ll get in contact with him and get him to Incheon airport.” Out of the corner of his eye, Q can see Travis nod.

Thank god that Bond’s wearing earbuds. Honestly, if he just kept his earpieces like he was supposed to, MI6 could probably avoid half of the shit it gets into.  

 _But you still trust his judgement with your life,_ his brain supplies.

The dull school day must be getting to his head.

Q sends the map to his minions and sends a cute little virus to Bond’s phone, jumping from camera to camera to keep an eye on his progress. He has no clue how Bond passed into South Korea without tipping off a dozen guards, but it went completely unnoticed, so Q isn’t complaining.

“007. I hope you were planning on taking the subway to Incheon Airport and not to-“ Q glances at the poster that Bond was reading. “-Hongdae’s Men’s Fire Bar. Honesty, it’s five in the morning.”

Q gets a little grunt in reply. It’s quite honestly more than what he was hoping for.

_What was he hoping for?_

“Get on the last car.”

Bond snorts. “You sure, Q?”

Q recalls their last excursion on the subway.

“Yes, I’m sure. I need you to get on flight back to London as soon as possible, I don’t have much time.”

“That’s right, how’s school going?” Bond crosses the large station surprisingly quickly, navigating through the crowd.

“Great, thanks. I love learning physics-for-four-year-olds.” It takes a lot of Q’s self control not to tell 007 to _go fuck himself, thanks_. He figures it’s not very professional. “How much cash do you have on you?”

“Around… twenty-thousand won.”

Great. _Lovely_.

“Alright, head over to the leftmost ATM- one more- yeah, that one- and fake a transaction.” Q pulls up a new window, locates the ATM and the amount inside it, before drawing from a fake bank account. The rest of the money, just enough to cover the hour-long drive to Incheon Airport from downtown Seoul, spits out of the machine.

“I’ll send you your flight details and a digital copy of your boarding pass. Which passport are you using?” God, Q hates the Korean Air website. The interface makes him feel a bit like crying.

“Danny Connor.”

“Alright, just sent your flight info, Do you have a cover or do you need me to make you one?” Q can’t seem to filter out the snark from his voice.

“I am _perfectly fine, thank you_.” To his immense satisfaction, Bond sounds affronted.

“Alright, whatever you say.”

“Your coddling is quite frankly irrita-“ He doesn’t let Bond finish.

“I need to leave. Don’t get into more trouble, I can’t babysit you all the time.” Q cuts the connection off.

The stall feels emptier than before.

Q lets out a sigh.

It echoes against the dirtied tiles.

He still has seven minutes until his next class- Physical Education.

Q stares at Bond for four of those minutes, jumping from camera to camera, until the agent is in a taxi with a thoroughly background-checked driver (checked by yours truly). He sends all of the information to Travis. Q isn’t writing a report if he doesn’t have to.

“Thank you, agent. If you have any questions about the report, email me. And if you see Bond, please do tell him to try to stay out of trouble and on our radar.” Q exits the call.  

One by one, he packs his phone and tablets away.

Two minutes until class.

He leans against the stall wall, not caring that it’s probably completely vile. He doesn’t really like this jacket all that much anyways,

He sighs again, indulging his inner dramatic.

The bathroom feels very cold and despite having the overwhelming capability to get in contact with MI6 and Bond, he hasn’t felt this alone since becoming Quartermaster.

* * *

 

“Mr. Walt, would you like to explain to the class why you’re late?” The PE teacher, Ryan Miller, is, in the kindest terms, a brute of a man. He looks a bit like he fought a few bears, beat half of them, and lost to the rest. His voice gives Q a second-hand urge to clear his throat.

“I apologize, I got lost on my way here.” Q doesn't think that he could sound less engaged if he tried.

He kind of wishes that he’d missed the entire class.

“Five laps for sass, Walt!” Miller roars, flinging a meaty finger towards the dusty track.

Oh well. It’s not like he hasn’t been through worse. Like training with the double-Os every other morning for the past few months. He doesn’t think those bruises are ever going to fade.

Q cocks his head at Miller, but sheds his anorak and starts running anyways. There was a time when he would’ve been winded from even half a lap, but that’s long past.

Q awkwardly runs his five laps, feeling forty-six eyes boring into his back. He speeds up a bit, wanting to get it over with.

What are they supposed to be learning? It’s not like they need to be _taught_ how to run laps.

He’s almost sprinting, at this point, a million reasons as to why this is illogical run through his head. They're coming too fast, he can't- he needs to  _stop thinking, make them go away._

He finishes his last two laps in the time it took him to do his first.

Q stumbles to a stop in front of Miller. Is he happy that he delayed his entire class just to reprimand one student?

It takes him a second to realize that his classmates are staring at him. Is his hair _that_ messed up?

Q runs a self-conscious hand through his sweaty hair and retrieves his jacket from where he’d discarded it.

“Sir?” Q stares expectantly at Miller, waiting for a response.

“Andrew, you took around four minutes to complete two kilometers. Do you run track?”

Oh, so he’s _Andrew_ now?

“No, sir.”

“Consider it. With speed like yours-“ Miller is completely smiles now, laughing heartily.

Q is tempted to offer him a cough drop. He sounds like he needs it.

For the rest of the class, Q catches a few starers. They play dodgeball for the first half, which Q is decent at (but can’t help but think that he’d be completely fried against the Double-Os), but then they have physical exams.

Q didn't even know that there _were_ exams for PE.

Thankfully, they don’t ask the students to draw out their own muscle chart of the human body and label each part, like Q had been anticipating.

Actually, that would’ve been tame compared to his last bio exam (taken when he was around twelve), where he was asked to assemble a skeleton using old human bones.

It was interesting, sure, but mostly just gross. But better the bones of a skeleton than freshly-dead muscles (his older brother had chosen the latter over the former, for some godforsaken reason).

Q is distracted from his train of thought by the worksheet thrust at him. It looks like he has to fill it out- there’s the basic information, like name, age, weight, and BMI, but then there are questions about his habits. What do his typical meals look like? Does he exercise frequently? How does he spend his out-of-school time?

How tedious.

(He halfheartedly wonders if he can get Travis to do this for him)

_What do his typical meals look like?_

_Unsweetened tea with a splash of milk, month-old crackers that he finds occasionally in his desk, the occasional exotic chocolate given to him by Bond or Moneypenny, sometimes a few biscuits._

He writes that his breakfasts usually consist of a banana, he has another banana and some chicken at lunch, and eats steamed vegetables and chicken for dinner.

Normal enough, right?

_What does he do for exercise?_

_Gets into accidental and spontaneous gunfights, fistfights, and every other one in between. Runs from exploding and otherwise debilitating buildings. Swims out of bodies of water intended to drown him. Runs from and chases after random criminals. Chases down his own agents._

He puts down that he runs biweekly and occasionally walks to the store.

_What does he do after school?_

_Plots and executes assassinations of foreign politicians. Saves other politicians. Babysits killers. Makes tea. Hacks governments. Reports corruption to his superiors. Drinks tea. Stalks other countries’ movements. Washes teacups._

He writes a bit of fiction about enjoying coding and having a babysitting job. It isn’t entirely false.

Q thinks, in between lying very blatantly about each question, that school is very tiring and not entirely something he wants to participate in.

 

At least he gets _paid_ at MI6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEARS IT'S 2018 BITCHES WE MADE IT
> 
> also to everyone who bookmarked, left kudos, and commented: thank you so so much!!! honestly I didn't think anyone would read my obscure self indulgent semi crackfic and I hardly ever write so it means a ton to me I LOVE YOU ALL
> 
> edit: also just wanted to clarify 20,000 won is about $18, or around 13 pounds


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